


coming back, calling to me

by burnthesocks



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Hank Anderson Whump, Self-Destruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:20:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26063338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burnthesocks/pseuds/burnthesocks
Summary: Hank wishes he could go back, wishes so fucking strongly he could undo what was done.But now he has to suffer the much-deserved consequences and finds himself grateful for the familiarity of rock bottom.
Kudos: 1





	coming back, calling to me

Hank felt something akin to nausea, holding the covers over himself. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make himself smaller. He was awkward, too big to feel comfortable. He pulled his arms tighter around himself and the feel of his body made him want to sob. He felt every hair on his arm, head snapping back as he was overcome with gross emotions that made him want to maybe stare into a bottle of whiskey, or at the barrel of a gun. He knew both would just put him further into this pit, so he resolved to stay where he was in his bed, feeling absolutely disgusting, ridden with such deep shame that he couldn’t breathe without pain in his chest.

He attempted though, taking a deep, shuddering breath and trying to calm himself down. He knew this was his fault. He shouldn't have let himself dream at all, knew that doing something so wrong would only hurt people. Would only hurt him, too, but he'd passed the threshold of caring about his feelings a long time ago. 

Now Hank sat up in his bed, feeling as though he might throw up or cry or maybe just sit with the urge to scratch his skin off. He probably wouldn't, though, easily predicting the infection that would fester if he dared to scratch at his hands again. He felt so wrong. So, so wrong. 

Hank set his gaze on the old dust gathering in corners, and longed to have an existence so simple. He wished he had no impact at all, that way he wouldn't hurt anyone anymore. 

Hank definitely felt far too big, painfully aware of his body to the point where he wanted to scream, but no sound came out, just a choked noise that was too high in pitch, making him further upset. He kicked the covers off of himself, suddenly way too hot. He knew what was happening, with his body overheating, and he wished he could ignore the things that were sure to come next.

He picked at his nails, which had dirt caught under them and were uneven, probably too long. He needed a shower, probably. He didn’t care, though. No one was here. It wouldn’t make a damn difference. He knew he didn’t deserve relief from this, so he stayed, growing sweaty and nauseous. The sun was rising, shining through the blackout curtains that did absolutely jackshit to keep it away. He didn’t need any more warmth, he already felt disgusting as it was, but he found that he couldn’t move.

In a fit of frustration, he slammed his hand into the headboard. It made a loud rattling sound as it crashed against the wall, but the wood didn’t give, and Hank held his fist and swore.

He knew where this was going. He knew what was coming, and he found that he wasn’t very afraid. The process of his deteriorating was familiar, at the very least, so he allowed it to happen. He felt something screaming, clawing with grief and regret inside him, though. He felt even more sick, impossibly more repulsed with himself and his actions as he remembered just what he had done, all of the things he had said.

_You shouldn't have done any of that._

_You are disgusting._

_Live with it._

_Or better yet: Die with it._

Hank ripped greasy hair out of his scalp, brows scrunched together and teeth grinding unpleasantly. Every single touch against anything made him feel so much worse and he felt the sickening urge right then to get it over with, but he never found out if that urge was strong enough.

Hank couldn't move his limbs, couldn't get up, feeling paralyzed and still so disgusting. He took quick breaths and his heart roared in his ears, his stomach contributing to the noise by grumbling unappreciatively.

Despite everything, though, there was a morbid feeling of relief as he finally sunk into self destruction. It was easy– which was the last thing he deserved, but all he could manage if he did keep living– and it was familiar.

**Author's Note:**

> is this in character? sock doesn't know, sock is merely projecting


End file.
